


A World, Off-Center

by ryssabeth



Series: Situational Irony [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grief, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what looks like a happy ending is an ending with a hole instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A World, Off-Center

The new flat is a single bedroom ( _“so are we going to move into together or…?”_ ), with a kitchen and a bathroom and a living room. Everything is, as expected, tiny. It’s unlikely that all of their friends could fit in the living room, the way some of them ( _“Jehan_ _—like a fucking cat—“_ ) like to sprawl onto the floor.

But it’s big enough and it’s not the _old_ flat ( _“though it wasn’t a bad flat”_ ) and that’s all that matters.

Enjolras tucks the key into his pocket, heading back down the stairs and out to his—their—car to grab the boxes he’d brought with him.

( _“I’ll just wait here then,”_ Grantaire says.)

Half of the boxes go unopened, packed away, instead, into the closet in the bedroom. There’s hardly room for them _and_ clothes to go there. But there’s nowhere else they can go, and Enjolras isn’t going to get rid of them.

( _“One day, we’ll get a bigger flat, and then you can horde everything you want. Weirdo.”_ )

“I don’t horde,” he says.

( _“You do.”_ )

-

Enjolras has eleven missed calls and thirty-six—thirty-eight— _forty_ text messages. But he doesn’t open or check a single one, instead sitting at the table (that had been moved from the old flat— _“oh look here’s that stupid face I drew”_ ) and flipping through his contacts, tapping against Grantaire’s number.

He hears the stupid, annoying, _ridiculous_ ringtone chime from his—their—bedroom. And it goes unanswered, clicking to voicemail, and he hears _hello, you’ve reached Grantaire—if you meant to call me, leave your name and number, and if this is an accident, it’s fine, it happens, just never mention it again, if this is Enjolras, I love you. And also, I’ve embarrassed you on my voicemail, and there is nothing you can do. There will be a beep. That’s your cue._

The call is ended before the beep can begin.

And Enjolras tries again.

( _“I made that voicemail to make you angry.”_ )

“I know,” he says to the kitchen table. “I figured.”

( _“You’re so much smarter than I give you credit for, Apollo.”_ )

-

He brushes his teeth at noon ( _“Ugh, morning breath until noon, who are you and why have you replaced—“_ ), meeting Grantaire’s eyes in the bathroom mirror, watching as his face breaks into an easy smile that opens him up from the inside.

Enjolras spits into the sink, keeping his eyes on the mirror as long as he can. “What _are_ you doing?”

( _“Watching you brush your teeth. I can ever tell if I like kisses that taste like mint better or just after you’ve had a cup of coffee. Decisions, decisions.”_ )

He turns around, an offer of _let’s find out_ sitting on his tongue, but there are footsteps retreating down the hallway and an echo of laughter.

He follows the sound.

( _“I think you left the water running. Tsk, tsk.”_ )

-

Enjolras falls asleep on the couch, one day or another. They bleed together, a little bit. His inbox is full now. ( _“You should probably talk to them, you know how much Joly worries, he might thing you’ve come down with the plague.”_ ) But, it’s a day, and he falls asleep on the couch.

It’s a pretty shitty sofa, really. It’s Grantaire’s—he wanted to keep it because it was lumpy and antique and also, the first couch that he had ever kissed Enjolras on. ( _“You’ve always hated this sofa, I don’t even know_ why _, the colour isn’t so bad.”_ )

But—still he sleeps there, arms wrapped around his stomach, face pressed into the backrest cushion that smells like wine, maybe, and Grantaire. ( _“You creep.”_ )

When he wakes up, there is a blanket draped over him.

( _“I didn’t want you to get cold.”_ )

He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

And dreams of chapped lips brushing against his forehead.

-

Hot showers have always been his thing. Too hot, oftentimes, for Grantaire to manage ( _“hot water makes me itch”_ ), but Enjolras has always enjoyed them, but this time—this time it’s different, just a quick thing, pulling redness from his skin with piercing fingers.

He shakes out his hair instead of drying it, stepping out of the shower and breathing in mist.

 _Hey there, Sunshine_ is written on the mirror, letters swooping in flowing script.

He wipes away the letters and Grantaire is standing in the doorway again, arms crossed over his chest.

( _“Looking good—if you could just give me a second to grab a pencil and—“_ )

“No,” Enjolras snorts, and wraps a towel around himself.

( _“Buzzkill.”_ )

-

Their bed is a queen-size, just enough room for the both of them, especially if they wrap around each other in a tangle of limbs.

The side opposite Enjolras is empty.

-

 _Hello,_ Enjolras hears, his phone pressed to his ear, _you’ve reached Grantaire—if you meant to call me, leave your name and number, and if this is an accident, it’s fine, it happens, just never mention it again, if this is Enjolras, I love you. And also, I’ve embarrassed you on my voicemail, and there is nothing you can do. There will be a beep. That’s your cue._

He ends the call before he hears the beep.

He calls again.

Grantaire’s ringtone comes from their bedroom.

-

Grantaire looks at his phone—or where his phone rests, top drawer of the end table on his side of the bed—and wishes he could answer it.

He wishes he could open the boxes in the closet.

He wishes he could comfort Enjolras.

His ringtone keeps playing. Enjolras keeps listening to his voicemail.

-

He covers his face with his hands.

Enjolras weeps.

-

Grantaire can only watch, these days.

And so that is what he does.

-

_“Hi, oh God, Enjolras, thank God, you picked up, it’s Grantaire, it’s Grantaire, Enjolras, he’s been—”_


End file.
